


Mystrade World Cup 2018

by HastaLux



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 01:24:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15401898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HastaLux/pseuds/HastaLux
Summary: Originally posted on Tumblr as ficlets during the 2018 World Cup. Mycroft discovers Greg is rooting for France in addition to England and a fun sort of rivalry begins.





	1. Chapter 1

“He’s such a joy to watch when he opens his legs- really stretches it out-”

Mycroft almost falls out of his office chair, leaving it spinning to find out what manner of adult entertainment Gregory has put on full blast in the living room _in the middle of the day._  “Gregory, I have phone calls to make, this is-”

It’s football. 

Mycroft blinks. “Did the announcer just-”

“Yeah, I don’t think they listen to themselves sometimes.”

Mycroft sighs and prepares to go back to his office, but then his mind registers what Gregory is wearing. It’s a French jersey with _Lestrade_ across the back, tight-fit to his pectorals, and a pair of bright red and blue pants.

He coughs delicately. “Gregory, whom are you supporting?”

“Er. Well, France is up today- my cousins over there sent me the jersey, but I can’t quite wear it over to the local, think they’d tan my hide….”

“You are wearing a _French_  national team shirt in the British Government’s house?” Mycroft arches a brow. 

Gregory matches his gaze with an insolent grin. “Oh, is it not ‘minor official’ when it’s footie?” 

Mycroft’s lips purse. He rather likes it when Gregory gets a bit… impertinent… but he has work to finish, and he knows Gregory won’t wish to be too distracted from the match. “Come to me when this is done. In my office.” 

He’s pleased the sentence seems to cause a light flush to immediately bloom on Gregory’s cheeks. “Going to take it off me?”

“I’m going to fuck the English back into you.”

Mycroft turns on his heel and retreats to his office, hiding a quiet grin at the sputtering noises Gregory continues to make on the couch as the announcer shouts “GOAL” on the television. 


	2. Chapter 2

Greg can feel himself blushing as he makes his way to Mycroft’s office. He shouldn’t be- it’s not as thought their relationship has ever been anything close to chaste- but Mycroft’s authoritative side still has that effect on him.

He’s unsurprised that, having sensed Greg’s arrival, Mycroft has set himself up for a dramatic spin of his office chair. Greg is aware that he married a man who would make an excellent Bond villain if he was so inclined.

What he isn’t expecting is that Mycroft has put on the England jersey Greg gave him for the last cup four years ago when Greg dragged him to the pub to watch a few rounds. _Holmes. #1._

Greg swallows.

“Myke….”

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s head tilts, his fingers steepled together, and Greg is getting decidedly nervous. “Do you know the words to  _La Marseillaise_?”

“Erm.” Greg shifts his weight. “Yes?”

What he realizes, some time later, is that he doesn’t know the words well enough and his French does not hold up when Mycroft has him bent over his desk, pounding away mercilessly, specifically ordered to keep his hands on the desk and forbidden to touch himself. “You sound rather pretty like this, Gregory. Shall we try _God Save the Queen_ next?”

Greg whimpers.

He’s openly pleading by the time Myke finishes humming along with the tune, having managed little of it himself. “Myke- please- _Christ_ \- can I-?”

“I don’t know, Gregory,” Mycroft is sounding a bit winded- Greg has to admire the self-control he’s showed, especially at this pace. “I must be absolutely certain all the foreign influence is out of you. France and England are both still in?”

“Y-yes-”

“And if they face each other you will be cheering for…?”

“England! England- fuck, Myke, please- please-”

Mycroft makes him clean both of them and the desk off with his France jersey, so Greg is a little surprised to find it washed and tidily folded, back in its usual spot in his closet by late evening. 

He runs his tongue over his teeth, smirking. That looks an awful lot like a dare….


	3. Chapter 3

There’s an outburst in the living room. Mycroft sighs, sets his book down in the library, and meanders out to find out what Greg is yelling about.

_Oh, lovely. More football._

His eyes skim the screen. “I take it England has scored?”

The yes must be inferred in the form of Gregory bounding off the couch, grasping his face, and utterly snogging him. Mycroft is still reeling when Greg releases him to do another yelling lap about the room.

Mycroft sighs and returns to the library. He cannot stay there, however, because now that Greg is riled up and drinking there are further outbursts tied to missed shots as well.

He’s about to ask Greg if he would perhaps consider relocating to the pub if he is unable to celebrate in a more docile fashion, but as he returns to the living room he’s met with the sight of another England goal, immediately followed by the flying form of his husband- properly in his England jersey this time, thanks much- tackling him to the couch.

And kissing. Very thorough, deep kissing, carrying the distinct flavor of Greg’s preferred beer.

“Nyerrgh,” he notes eloquently as Greg finally peels off of him. Mycroft has to admit he doesn’t precisely mind that Greg is expressing his enthusiasm so… physically.  He finds himself inclined to stay on the couch for the remainder, just in case of further celebrations. 

It’s a fairly calm half hour, and then the game wraps. 

Mycroft looks over at Greg, who is bouncing and whooping and then, very suddenly, taking that ecstatic joy and climbing over Mycroft, pinning him to the couch and practically ripping his trousers off.

“Gregory- is this really- hnnngh-”

Gregory apparently has a bit of energy to work off, and will be doing it by enthusiastically riding Mycroft while yelling out a remarkably lewd iteration of the lyrics to _Three Lions_. 

Mycroft makes a mental note in the part of his mind not occupied by clinging on to Greg’s England jersey and shouting his name that he really, really needs to keep better track of the match schedule if this is going to happen every time. He might even be starting to like the sport. 


	4. Chapter 4

Greg makes a choice, in the morning. He will be wearing his France jersey. All day. And his lucky pants. He’s been casting looks at Mycroft for hours, daring him to do something about it.

Mycroft hasn’t said a thing about it yet. Hasn’t seemed like he’s even noticed Greg has it on. 

It’s starting to make him a bit nervous.

He forgets once the match is on, of course. It’s close- he paces about the living room to work off the tension until finally, _finally_ , there’s a goal. Great, excellent. Now they just have to hang on- and they do! 

Greg flies about the living room. _God,_ he wants a France vs. England final. How fun would that be. Make some bets with the cousins- maybe for who hosts the next get-together… or wagers of nice wine and whiskey….

He’s already into their family texting group when he hears the quiet clearing of a throat behind him. 

“Gregory.” 

_Dammit_. He really had to work on making that particular tone of voice _not_ shoot him immediately into half an erection. “Yes, love?”

“I thought we discussed the presence of foreign influences on British soil?”

“Discussion is not quite the word I would use.” Greg smiles coyly. “If it helps, I’ll have my English kit on tomorrow.”

“Hmmm. All these dual allegiances, I just don’t know….” Mycroft leans back in his armchair, sipping a whiskey. Greg thought he’d rather given up on trying to get work done while Cup games were on.

Arching a brow, Greg strides over and perches on the arm of Myke’s chair, switching seamlessly into French. “ _Is the British Government worried about being penetrated by the might of France_?” He drops down into Myke’s lap. “ _Or do you secretly enjoy it?_ ”

“Are you declaring yourself to be a foreign agent, Gregory?”

“If I say yes, does one of us get to use the cuffs?”

He’s pleased the statement elicits an immediate thoughtful lick of the lower lip and a clear adjusting of position from Mycroft. “Hmmm. An interrogation?”

“A wager, perhaps. If England gets through tomorrow… France against England in the final… I can think of loads of things we could bet.” Greg watches Mycroft’s eyes blow a bit wider as he leans closer. “Of course, England has to win tomorrow… or I suppose in _our_ contest, France will be the winner by default.” 

He lets his hand slip lower, into Mycroft’s trousers. “And I have lots of plans for my victory celebration.”

Mycroft lets out a little cough, flushing. “But you’ll be cheering for England tomorrow.”

“Of course, love. You know I love a fair fight.”

Greg winks, shamelessly wiggling his arse in Mycroft’s direction as he rises and trots off to raid their fridge. All’s fair, after all.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft settles into his end of the couch, England jersey on, just before the anthem. He’s a bit surprised at how many of the crowd sings along, but it is nice to see such an outpouring of national spirit.

Greg, ever the attentive husband- at least until kickoff- pours him a whiskey. He has his own selection of beer already arrayed in front of him so he doesn’t need to get up to replenish until at least the half. “How are we feeling about her majesty’s chances today, love?”

Having only done a cursory bit of research, Mycroft is not precisely sure. But he isn’t going to admit that. “I feel confident in our abilities.”

“Mmmhm.” Greg smiles mischievously. “As do I, but as a reminder, if we lose….”

“Then I shall expect the full range of your creativity, darling.” Mycroft smiles in return.

They nestle against each other as the game opens, Mycroft’s hand resting on Greg’s shifting thigh- the man cannot sit still, he can barely pick a patch of the cushion to stay on- and then England scores, just about five minutes in. Mycroft feels a surge of comfortable confidence as Greg clutches his hand with a loud “YES!” and grasps his face to kiss him. 

The enthusiasm is contagious. Mycroft finds himself joining Gregory on the edge of the couch, equally eager for another goal and gasping when Croatia gets too close to the English net.

When they can finally relax at the half, Mycroft takes the opportunity to complement the one part of the matches he’s been certain of so far. “I do like that gentleman’s suit.”

Gregory lifts a brow. “The coach? You like Southgate’s suit?”

“I understand from the internet he is inspiring young people to invest in waistcoats. Hopefully we shall see a resurgence of proper attention to fashion and grooming.”

“Sweetheart, I think you’re looking at entirely the wrong part of the match.”

“I don’t know, Gregory,” Mycroft says casually, swirling his whiskey. “He’s fairly handsome as well.”

He doesn’t even need to look to know Greg rolls his eyes. “Mmm. You’re baiting me, love.”

Mycroft lifts a brow in turn. “Is it working?”

The second half begins- Mycroft has refilled his whiskey. “They’re knocking each other around an awful lot, aren’t they? It doesn’t seem very sporting.”

“Yeah, they do that-” Greg leaps off the couch as Croatia finds the net, yelling out a diatribe Mycroft does not actually follow regarding high legs and penalties intermingled with a significant amount of profanity. Mycroft rubs his back when he returns to the couch, trying to be as soothing as he can when Greg is still enough to provide a bit of comfort to. For all of their fun about Gregory’s French support, he knows Greg will be disappointed if England doesn’t get through. 

Overtime. Injuries. Another Croatia goal. Gregory’s profanity level has reached new and vitriolic heights, much of it directed at the referees and their seemingly persistent inability to catch balls slipping over the line or fouls that should be called against Croatia (at least according to Greg- Mycroft does not know enough about the rule set to gauge his accuracy).

When it ends, England stoically devastated on the field, Mycroft lets Greg yell about it until he’s out of steam. When he’s finally collapsed on the couch, muttering and finishing his beer, Mycroft finally reaches out to pet his knee. “We have a very young team, don’t we? I’m sure they’ll be even better next time.”

Greg grumbles a vague affirmative.

“And this does technically grant France the victory between us.”

“Yeah….”

“Would you like to claim your victory now?”

Greg tilts over and tucks himself against Mycroft’s chest. “Nah. Too much beer, I think.”

“Very well. Just let me know when I must put on the France jersey.”

“How do you know I’m going to make you wear the jersey?”

Mycroft strokes his hand over Greg’s hair. “We are married, love, I think I know you fairly well.”

“….fine, I’ll tell you when to put the jersey on.”


	6. Chapter 6

Greg settles on the couch, making grumbling noises as the commentator discusses the likelihood that Belgium will come out on top. _Christ._ Playing for third. Third is acceptable. Sort of. He’s trying not to be irked about it, but still. Losing to _Croatia_. Honestly. And now they seem to think England won’t even manage third, and the match hasn’t even started yet.

Mycroft pops out of his office as soon as _God Save the Queen_ begins to play. “I thought England was out?”

“Third place match, love.”

“Ah. I see.”

He buries his head in his hands when, four minutes in, Belgium executes a perfect breakaway and cross to plant one in the net. The weight on the couch shifts as Mycroft slides in beside him. “Should you be watching this if it will be very frustrating for you?”

“Being frustrated is a core part of the footie experience, love. Usually followed by yelling about why your own team belongs in the bin.”

Mycroft makes a hmming noise and pours them both whiskeys. Greg is not so much yelling today himself, more groaning with every shoddy pass. He’ll save the shouting for France tomorrow. By the half he’s barely even groaning, just muttering quietly to himself and letting out a long, melancholic sigh when Belgium scores again.

“I like the look of that young man.”

Greg casts a sideways glance along the couch. “ _Which_ young man?

“Mm- didn’t catch the name. One of the ones with tattoos, I think.”

A brow lifts. “On which side.”

“Belgium.” Mycroft takes a deliberate sip of his whiskey. “Handsome, a bit rough looking….”

“Oh really?” Greg runs his tongue over his teeth. “And who needs the English fucked back into them now?”

“Odd, I thought I was promised France.”

“I’m sure we can manage both.”

As soon as the match ends Greg clicks off the telly and unceremoniously lifts Mycroft from the couch, tossing him over his shoulder, carting him off to the bedroom over the sound of protests regarding the risk of injury to Greg’s back and the state of Mycroft’s suit. Depositing him on the bed, Greg immediately climbs on top of him, running his hands over the suit’s fine fabric.

He takes a moment to appreciate the situation- himself more or less in full footie kit, and Mycroft in one of his nice suits as Greg slides his trousers over his arse and smacks it lightly. “Alright, Holmes. I want enthusiastic praise for the English side. We’ve got quite enough of handsome and a bit rough looking, there’s no need to go looking for it in Belgium.”

Mycroft sneaks a smug gaze back, looking pleased with himself. “Only rough _looking_?”

Greg smacks the fine arse before him once more, smirking. “Praise only, or that tie of yours is going in your mouth. Actually….” He shifts round the bed until he’s at Mycroft’s head and pushes down his own sports shorts, taking hold of Mycroft’s hair and pulling him up to eye level with the length he’s just freed. “Think I have something else that will work just as well….”

_Yeah_ , he thinks as the first stroke of tongue laps agains him and he involuntarily shudders. _Nothing better to take the mind off a loss._


	7. Chapter 7

“Are you wearing it?”

Mycroft sighs. It doesn’t exactly fit him, but he did agree to this, event if he _thought_ he was agreeing to wear it for _sex_ and not simply for “additional good luck”. He shuffles out to the living room in Greg’s France jersey, a pair of athletic shorts, and knee high football socks. “If you even consider photographing this, Gregory-”

Greg bites down a smile. “Nope, love, this is just for the mental archive. Promise.” He’s wearing an older French jersey, one that’s a bit tight on him… in a very flattering way, actually. Greg catches him staring and lifts a brow. “Telly’s over there, love, unless you want a different sort of show.”

“I do, but you’ll never be able to focus on it while there’s a ball being kicked around.” Mycroft takes his spot on the couch, trying to work out a way to sit in this kit that won’t make him feel… rather exposed. “I suppose I’ll just have to admire the French team. Quite a few good looking young men, I’ve noticed….”

“Hmph. I know you’re baiting me, Mycroft Holmes. You can’t distract me from the final.”

“Well it’s your fault, bringing that French jersey into our home. Now I know how good it looks.”

France gets the first goal- Greg is up instantly, whooping and cheering. Mycroft just smiles at his copious enthusiasm- though it’s dampened minutes later by an equalizer from Croatia, after which Mycroft learns exactly how much profanity Gregory knows in French. 

During the penalty kick that brings France their second goal, Greg clings to Mycroft like he’s found a personal good luck charm. “Darling, is this really helping?”

“Yes. Now cease complaining or I’ll have to invite John over to see your outfit.”

France goes up: 4-1, and things seem relaxed. Mycroft is even beginning to suspect that Greg is about to abandon his own attention to the game and pull him into his lap until a misstep even Mycroft can see gains Croatia another goal and Greg is reduced to more pacing and shouting.

It’s smooth sailing from there, however, and as the French team celebrates their final win, Mycroft sees Greg’s eyes glittering at him contemplatively. “Now. Mycroft. I believe you were worried about foreign agents penetrating your defenses.”

Mycroft leans back against the couch, smirking. “Oh, indeed. Terribly crafty, those French agents.”

“Mmmm. And what would you say to one already inside your house?”

“That would rather depend on what he’s offering.”

Greg strides over and take Mycroft’s face in his hands, kissing him deeply. “He is offering a very thorough experience of French ingenuity and stamina. Now get in the bedroom and leave the kit on. I’ve a victory to celebrate.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Say it again, love.”

Greg smiles as Mycroft feigns resignation with an exaggerated sigh. For all his huffing Greg knows Myc actually really enjoys this particular sort of game. “Vive la France.”

“Very good. We’ll make a proper fan of you yet.” He very slowly pulls the football socks down over Mycroft’s calves, kissing over the skin as it’s revealed- his husband does have excellent legs, and Greg does love to appreciate them- then uses them to tie off Myc’s wrists to the headboard. There’s something amusingly appealing about Mycroft in a footie uniform, especially a French one. Such a marked contrast from his strictly pressed and tailored suits that Greg already enjoys rumpling- and these soft fabrics are far easier to work with.

He pushes the shiny fabric of the shorts up, exposing more soft, pale flesh to kiss. Mycroft arcs against his lips, subconsciously spreading his legs wider to let Greg better rest between them. Greg gets close to the tempting bits still covered by the fabric but does not indulge, despite Mycrofts obvious shifting to try and rut up. His tongue darts out, merely teasing between kisses, until he can see the shorts beginning to tent in arousal. Mycroft lets out a quiet little moan.

“Gregory-”

“Mmm. Not yet. Just making sure I have your full attention.”

Greg crawls upward, shifting the Lestrade jersey he’s put Mycroft in upward, still kissing each bit of exposed skin softly. His thighs dip, strategically rubbing against Myc’s hardness and earning a long, breathy groan in response. When he reaches Myc’s nipples he pauses to lick them until they are firm and quivering.

When their lips finally press together he can feel how needy he’s made Mycroft, their tongues clashing together as Mycroft strains against his improvised restraints.

“Now. Mycroft. Your nefarious French agent has a victory to celebrate, and I must be absolutely sure you understand French superiority in this matter.” He shifts back down, slides Myc’s legs together, and pulls his shorts and pants down to his ankles.

“A standard footie half…” Greg makes a show of slipping off his own bottoms, but very specifically leaves his France jersey on. “…is forty-five minutes.”

“A full match…” He climbs back over Mycroft, finding the lube in the nightstand. “…is ninety.”

He can already see the lights dawning in Mycroft’s eyes as he anticipates what Greg is going to say next.

“We’ll be doing at _least_ the half, gorgeous, and you don’t get to come until I do.”

He smiles as Myc lets a whimper escape. “Gregory-”

“I’ve got my eye on the clock, love. Ready?”

Mycroft swipes his tongue over lip and nods, eyes dark, already shuddering as Greg’s cups him and spreads the lube over his cock, then over his own entrance. He doesn’t need very much prep, not with how often they go at it. Who needs a midfielders stamina when you’re two middle-aged men making up for lost time?

Around the half hour mark, with Greg very slowly and methodically riding him, Mycroft starts begging. Greg only smiles. At precisely forty-five minutes, Greg begins to stroke himself. His body is so stimulated that his eyes flutter, and he loses track of the clock entirely somewhere after the fifty minute mark.

_Close enough._

His pace increases, the angle changing to keep each thrust closer to his prostate. Mycroft gasps, almost shaking with the effort not to come. “Gre- Greg- please- oh, god-”

“Say it- one more time-”

“Vi- vive- le France-”

“Yesssss-” The tremorous wave of his own orgasm is close enough- Greg manages to get the words out just before his muscles seize, one hand gripping Mycroft’s thigh. “Co- come for me- come, My-”

After such a long buildup the moment itself is blinding, a haze of white exploding through his vision as he spills over Myc’s stomach, the pulse of his husband’s cock warm and thick within him. Both of them are panting when he comes back into control of his own limbs, carefully dismounting, untying Myc, and toppling over onto his back.

“God.”

“Quite, Gregory.”

Their hands lace as they catch their breath, Greg smiling widely every time he looks over and sees the rumbled France jersey. “Like you in that, you know.”

“Oh really? I couldn’t tell.” Mycroft lifts a brow as he smiles in return. “So this contest. Every four years, yes?”

“Mmhm.”

“Pity. I was just starting to enjoy the sport.”

Greg smirks. “Well, you could always take up Arsenal.”

“Mmmm… I don’t know, I’ve heard excellent things about the, ah, ‘Spurs’.”

“Oi!” Greg is unsurprised to see Mycroft is scarcely hiding a smirk of his own. “Yeah, alright, take the Spurs. I’ll enjoy doing this every time we kick their arses.”

Mycroft squeezes his hand. “Is that a promise?”


End file.
